


lurched like a stray to the arms that were open

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dancing, Feelings Realization, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Rated T for Teague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: It’d been Teague who struck the deal with Slackjaw, who obtained the code to the safe of the art dealer through less than conventional means of coercion, while Corvo searched the upper floors of the Golden Cat for his daughter. Teague’s involvement hadn’t been a part of the plan, originally; Corvo was supposed to be their sword arm while the three of them sat prettily at the Hound Pits, making plans. But once Teague managed to crack the code of Campbell’s black book, once he had sufficiently rested after his stint in the stocks, he feltrestless. All those years spent as a highway robber, learning the ways of stealth and subterfuge, all those favours he exchanged even after joining the Abbey – what better time to use those skills, those connections, than now, with the Empire’s future on the line?
Relationships: Corvo Attano/Teague Martin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 26





	lurched like a stray to the arms that were open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IvaHian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvaHian/gifts).



> Merry Christmas! :D
> 
> This fic is for my friend Iva as part of our server's small Secret Santa exchange; she asked for _"Fanfic of Corvo x Martin going on Dishonored 1 missions together and Martin coming to the realization that he’s In Love TM"_ , so here we are! ^-^

Teague has to admit, he cuts a rather dashing figure in the waistcoat Wallace selected for him.

He supposes Pendleton’s manservant must have a good eye for these things, considering Pendleton is decently clothed most of the time – and Teague knows he doesn’t have the mind to consider his attire when he’s drunk in the evening or hungover in the morning, which is, in fact, every evening and every morning. Where the attire came from, Teague has decided not to ask. It’s clean, and he will only need it for tonight’s festivities in any case.

The last time Teague was permitted to attend an aristocrat’s soirée, he carried a heavy music box and stood in a corner for most of the evening, watching the nobles from behind his mask with seething distaste. It’s odd to think that he’ll be amongst them tonight, perhaps, ironically, earning the distaste of one of his Brothers on duty in turn. It’s fortunate he will be wearing a mask of his own, though not the face of Holger he has grown accustomed to over the past few years. This, Piero crafted for him personally, shaped in the likeness of the winged serpent the common people believe the Outsider to take the shape of. That, too, is irony, he supposes.

He takes it now, lets it dangle from his fingertips by its straps as he climbs the stairs of the Hound Pits Pub, all the way up to the attic room. It would not be a proper ball without a consort, after all, and if Teague is to pose as the art dealer whose invitation they stole, he ought to look the part in every way.

Corvo has just about finished dressing when Teague enters, his own waistcoat cut lower than Teague’s to accentuate his taller stature. He looks _stunning_ , even more so than usual, and, well, Teague has never been immune to beauty, no matter the form it takes. But then Corvo is always beautiful, in that effortless way that makes him appealing even when quite literally crawling out of a sewer, and Teague would fail to restrict the Lying Tongue if he said he has never given Corvo more than a passing glance.

Corvo turns to grace him with that much too open smile he always does, as though he can’t think of anything more appealing than seeing Teague in that moment. “Martin,” he says, nodding in greeting as best he can with his own fingers grasping at his throat, trying – and failing, rather spectacularly so – to pin his cravat in place. “I don’t suppose you’ve come to save me from accidentally strangling myself?”

Teague can’t help but laugh. It’s more than a little amusing to see Corvo Attano, a man who can clear out a room full of guards in mere seconds without so much as breaking a sweat, struggling so profusely with a scrap of fabric. “One would think you’d know how to do this, after all the official functions you’ve attended.”

He steps closer regardless, batting Corvo’s hands away with his own, and begins to pin the cravat in place with practised fingers. While his current station would not betray it, Teague has attended his fair share of elaborate receptions in his youth, more often than not with the express goal of nicking something expensive that could feed him for some time.

Some days he still wonders how he ever managed to survive those years after he defected from the army, before he found salvation in the Abbey of the Everyman.

Corvo, too, has attended his fair share of elaborate receptions, and he pulls a face at the thought. “I wore my uniform to most of them,” he says, and Teague can feel the vibrations of his voice in his fingertips. “And one of the Tower’s servants used to assist me with this, when it was needed.”

Teague might have made a quip about apparently being Corvo’s newly appointed servant, if Corvo had anything less than the utmost respect for the lower class in which both of them have their roots. “Wallace didn’t offer to help?”

“He did,” Corvo says, “but I was a bit too worried he’d try to stab me with one of these pins. I haven’t been particularly courteous to Pendleton, considering the business with his brothers.”

“I did more to offset that than you,” Teague points out as he slides the last pin in place. “And Pendleton knows they aren’t dead.”

It’d been Teague who struck the deal with Slackjaw, who obtained the code to the safe of the art dealer through less than conventional means of coercion, while Corvo searched the upper floors of the Golden Cat for his daughter. Teague’s involvement hadn’t been a part of the plan, originally; Corvo was supposed to be their sword arm while the three of them sat prettily at the Hound Pits, making plans. But once Teague managed to crack the code of Campbell’s black book, once he had sufficiently rested after his stint in the stocks, he felt _restless_. All those years spent as a highway robber, learning the ways of stealth and subterfuge, all those favours he exchanged even after joining the Abbey – what better time to use those skills, those connections, than now, with the Empire’s future on the line?

So Teague tagged along, both to the Golden Cat and to Kaldwin’s Bridge, to collect information and secure escape routes and to overall make Corvo’s workload a bit less inordinate. And tonight, he will join Corvo at the party the Boyle sisters are hosting, in the hopes of figuring out which of them has been funding Hiram Burrows’ reign. It’s an objective Teague’s particular talents are very well suited for, and it’s an added bonus he is more or less of height with the very art dealer who so graciously relinquished his invitation at Teague’s insistence. Getting inside will not be an issue, as long as they keep their cover.

And if they do blow their cover, it won’t be because they don’t look the part; now that Corvo’s cravat is pinned in place, both of them are positively dressed to the nines. With their masks – Corvo’s by now familiar skull-like visage and Teague’s rendition of a winged serpent – they ought to attract just enough scandal to be noticed by those willing to gossip, about the Boyles and whatever else could be useful.

“Thank you,” Corvo says, smoothing out the cravat Teague just pinned in place for him. “I despise these things.”

“The cravats, or the parties?”

“Both.”

Teague barks a laugh. “At least this one is anonymous,” he says, tapping his mask with his fingernail. “So you won’t have to worry about the lords and ladies of the aristocracy trying to get you drunk and in bed because of your looks.”

A most alluring splotch of red colours the bridge of Corvo’s nose. “I would imagine not, being Mr. Bunting’s _date_ for the evening.”

“Maybe they’ll think Mr. Bunting has impeccable taste,” Teague hums, grinning widely. “There’s a lot you can say about the man, but he knows fine art when he sees it.”

Corvo snorts, but Teague doesn’t fail to notice his blush spreading from his nose to his cheeks. “One would think _you_ are the one trying to get me in bed.”

Teague shrugs casually. “The night’s still young.”

And he most certainly wouldn’t mind ending it in style – his own personal little Fugue, before he is inevitably named High Overseer on the morrow. Campbell’s black book has given him too much blackmail material on the Overseers conducting the Feast of Painted Kettles for any other outcome to be plausible.

Corvo swiftly places his mask over his face, no doubt to try and conceal just how red his visage is becoming – and stars, he’s delightfully easily flustered, for a man who has no doubt received his fair share of compliments and flirtations. “We should head out,” he says, voice muffled by the mask, and he nods at the setting sun outside. “It will be easier if we can get inside with the majority of the crowd.”

He’s not wrong. “After you, sugarplum,” Teague drawls, in a more than decent appropriation of Bunting’s nasally tone. “We ought to find the bar before Alderdice arrives, or there shan’t be any proper sherry left for any of us.”

A shudder passes through Corvo as he steps through the door Teague is holding open for him. “I’m starting to think you’re a bit too good at this.”

Teague hides his smile behind the visage of the flying serpent. “You don’t know the half of it.”

* * *

Getting in the door is even easier than expected.

The guards at the entrance are bored more than anything, going through the required pleasantries with all the enthusiasm of a well-fed hagfish. Greeting entitled nobles must be a dreadfully dull posting even on the best of days, and throwing a party this extravagant during these times, when people are quite literally dying in the streets, can only be repugnant to any Watchman with an inch of moral fibre left.

It suits Teague and Corvo just fine; their invitation is barely glanced over before they’re waved into the gardens, and they trail after a couple who’s excitedly chattering about a party game the Boyles devised for the evening.

“Party games,” Corvo mutters, low enough for only Teague to hear. “How terrible that they’ll be going out of season soon.”

The sarcasm is dripping from his every syllable, and Teague doesn’t need to be able to see his face to know his expression is one of thinly veiled disdain. “We ought to make sure this last one is positively _smashing_ , then.”

He offers an arm to Corvo, who lays his hand in the crook of Teague’s elbow. They are the picture of a proper suitor and the object of his affections, and hardly anyone gives them so much as a passing glance as they step into the manor – except for those who are wholly enamoured by their controversial masks, Corvo’s especially, and that is exactly as planned. It’s easy to pick out the nobles who are eager for a scandal, who likely have the most information to extort. Teague rather suspects this will be their easiest errand yet.

He splits off from Corvo soon after they make their entrance; Corvo goes to speak with a woman wearing a mask in the shape of a moth, hoping to gain some insights, while Teague slips into the smoking room to find an associate of Pendleton’s who might be helpful in their venture.

‘Helpful’, however, is not the word Teague would use to describe Timothy Brisby and his frankly disturbing request – though he does, admittedly, give Teague the name of the sister who’s been funding Burrows with surprisingly little fuss. He’s a dreadful weasel of a man, his idea of imprisoning Waverly Boyle for the rest of her life absolutely sickening, even to someone like Teague, who’s done his fair share of questionable things in his life. But then Teague has also learned how to lie as easily as he breathes, so he assures Brisby they will do everything in their power to bring Lady Boyle to him before making a hasty retreat. If he never has to talk to the man again it’ll be too soon.

He returns to the mansion’s main foyer to relay his newfound information to Corvo – and Teague finds him, to his amusement, in the middle of the hall, leading the woman in the moth mask in a basic waltz. Some other couples are dancing as well, though none as properly (stiffly, really) as Corvo and his partner, most of the nobles already well on their way to being drunk and as a result getting rather handsy.

Corvo’s dance partner, too, seems to think it’s a good idea to let her hands wander, and before Teague can even fully realise what he’s doing, he’s crossed the dancefloor in three quick strides, tapping the woman’s shoulder briskly. “Excuse me,” he says, in his near-perfect rendition of Bunting’s posh accent, the distortion provided by his mask making it indistinguishable from the real thing. “Mind if I cut in, madam?”

“Oh! Well, if you insist, sir,” the woman says, surprised but pleased at the attention.

“Excellent, much obliged,” Teague says, and he skilfully steps around the woman to take her place as Corvo’s partner – which was decidedly not what she was expecting. Teague can imagine the expression on her face perfectly, and he allows himself a grin that’s hidden by his mask as he places a hand on Corvo’s shoulder, his other intertwining with Corvo’s own.

Corvo takes it in stride, inclining his head at the woman in the moth mask before splaying his fingers across Teague’s lower back, drawing him in, and he continues to lead the dance as though he did not just have an abrupt change in partner.

“Thank you,” he breathes once the woman is out of earshot. “I don’t think I should have brought her that drink when she asked.”

“You should not have given her the excuse, you mean,” Teague reads between the lines easily. Accosting someone while sober is vile; accosting someone while intoxicated is amusing, to these people. “You aren’t Lord Protector here.”

He doesn’t say _now_ , because Corvo doesn’t need that particular reminder – it is only _here_ , in this mansion, in these masks, with these people. He is Lord Protector where it matters, to everyone who matters, few as they are. Teague wonders, foolishly, if Corvo would count him amongst them.

Corvo’s hand curls, fingertips digging lightly into Teague’s back, his steps precise, clipped. For all he isn’t saying, for all Teague can’t see his expression, it is easy to pick up on his frustration from his body language alone. He is exactly where he ought to be, yet nothing but the location is right – he should be wearing the coat that marks him Protector, should be wearing a mask much less eye-catching, should be dancing with the Empress rather than a soldier turned robber turned Overseer. He _should_ be Royal Protector _here_ , more than anywhere else.

“I know which sister wears which colour,” Corvo says, because they have a job to do, and this is not the place or the time to be saying anything else.

“Waverly,” Teague offers up.

“White.”

A shame. The blood will be more profound, on that colour.

He doesn’t even think to tell Corvo of Brisby and his scheme, knows Corvo would sooner throw himself on his sword than subject Waverly Boyle to such a fate, because Corvo, for all his fearsome reputation, doesn’t care to harm unnecessarily. Teague remembers very clearly the sheer relief in Corvo’s eyes when Teague told him he’d found another way to deal with Pendleton’s older brothers.

He didn’t tell Corvo what Slackjaw planned to do with them instead. Corvo didn’t ask.

The plan will be simple, this time. Teague will approach Waverly, will talk her into following him somewhere secluded – the cellar, he thinks, he can get her to the cellar if he invokes her paranoia, her fear of being targeted exactly as they’re targeting her now – and then it’ll be child’s play to be rid of her. They will be far out on the river before anyone ever realises she’s missing from her own party.

An easy task, really. And yet they don’t stop their dance, even as the music changes to a slow song that forces them ever closer together, swaying softly to the tune. It’s odd, all things considered, but the dance is a reprieve, in its own way. Right here and now, they are not Corvo Attano and Teague Martin, they do not have the weight of the Empire resting on their shoulders, they do not have to worry about assassinations and finances and plans schemed up in the dark. They are two faceless nobles enjoying a dance while the world around them crumbles, and they can take comfort here. They can pretend everything is as it should be.

Corvo can pretend he is still Royal Protector, can pretend he’s holding Jessamine Kaldwin in his arms, can pretend they’ll go home to their Tower early to tuck in their daughter and steal some time for themselves. He can pretend, for a moment, that the past six months did not transpire at all.

And Teague can pretend, too. He can pretend… that Corvo doesn’t want to pretend.

It’s almost laughable, how the realisation doesn’t _hit_ him, doesn’t make him stumble, doesn’t steal his breath, doesn’t so much as make his heart flutter. Because he’s known, hasn’t he, somewhere deep down? Has been pushing it away, away, _away_ , yet every time it drifts back, slowly, lazily, and this time he’s forgotten to push.

There is no epiphany, no shocked moment of _oh_. There is, instead, a softer, much more resigned _ah_.

It’s not just that he thinks Corvo handsome, that he would care to have him in his bed, see him come undone under his touch. He _does_ want that, mind, yet it is but the tip of the proverbial iceberg. He wants to see Corvo smile, wants him to sleep soundly at night, wants to shield him from all the horrors in the world because he has already had to endure far too many of them. Teague wants, with a fierce intensity, for Corvo to be _happy_ , without any regard for his _own_ happiness.

And it’s… odd. It should be more than odd – it should be _terrifying_ , really. Teague is a selfish man, has been a selfish man for as long as he can remember, and yet he would take a bullet for Corvo Attano without even a second of hesitation. He knows that with startling certainty, and it hardly even fazes him. He would take a bullet for Corvo Attano, and he would be at peace with it.

By the Strictures, but he has fallen hard.

It takes more than a little willpower to step away when the song ends, when all he really wants to do is rest his head on Corvo’s shoulder and will the world away for a few moments more. But then it’s not about what he wants, it hasn’t been about what he wants in a long time now, and they have a job to do still.

“I’ll get Waverly to follow me to the cellar,” Teague says, calmly, as though he did not just have to come to terms with the fact that he is hopelessly, foolishly in love. “Meet us there.”

Corvo nods, briefly squeezing Teague’s shoulder before he disappears into the crowd, and Teague takes a deep breath, running his hand along his waistcoat to feel the hard ridge of the knife he stowed away in his inner pocket.

He won’t have to take a bullet for Corvo tonight. But Teague will protect him, who he is and what he stands for, regardless.

Waverly Boyle will die by his hand.

And when they return to the Hound Pits… he needs to have a talk with Havelock.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to exert _so much_ self-control to stop here and not turn this fic into another 10k monster.
> 
> ... there may be a part two somewhere down the line.


End file.
